YANKEE JUSTICE
Captain Belton turned his attention to the prisoner. He studied the young man intently. “Another belligerent Rebel who doesn’t know he’s been whipped,” he remarked. “What unit did you serve with, Reb?”
Matt, who had been studying the captain just as closely, hesitated a moment before replying, “Twenty-second Virginia Cavalry.”
“Twenty-second, eh? I guess they didn’t teach you to stand up in the presence of an officer.”
“Not a Yankee officer, I reckon they didn’t,” Matt replied.
A wry smile creased the captain’s face. “Still got a few burrs, ain’t you? Well, let me tell you what happens to smart young men like yourself who murder an officer of the U.S. Army. We’re gonna take you back to Lexington in chains, so all the other Rebs can see you. Then we’re gonna hold a trial, so that everybody knows we stand for justice. Then we’re gonna hang you in the square to teach the rest of your kind a lesson.”
There was no doubt in Matt’s mind that a trial would be no more than a formality and the prelude to a hanging. The question before him was when to escape, for he knew he would rather a bullet in the back than a rope around the neck.
OUTLAW
Charles G. West
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, May 2006
Copyright © Charles G. West, 2006
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ISBN: 978-1-101-66280-9
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For Ronda
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Special Excerpt from THE HOSTILE TRAIL
Chapter 1
Making his way silently up through the dark forest that covered the east slope of the ridge, a Confederate sniper stopped and dropped to one knee to listen to the sounds of the night. Above him a Union picket passed in the darkness, following the narrow path that circled the crest of the hill. He had spotted the Union soldier when still some twenty yards away from where he presently knelt, and now he paused to allow time for the unsuspecting sentry to reverse his post. On the neighboring ridge, an owl hooted softly in the darkness. Several yards to his right there was a gentle rustle of leaves as a rodent scurried to seek a hiding place, aware that he might be prominent on the owl’s menu. Matt paid the rodent no attention. He was accustomed to the night sounds of the forest, and he had his own neck to worry about.
Come on, dammit, I ain’t got all night, he silently urged the sentry, impatient to make his way across the ridge. Unaware of the Confederate marksman less than a few yards directly below him, the Union soldier paused to light his pipe. A dense cloud of tobacco smoke spiraled around the man’s head as he pulled vigorously on his pipe, tamped the load down, and relit it. Satisfied that it was lit to stay, he began his tour again, completely unaware of the inviting mark he presented. It was this Yankee’s good fortune that he was not this night’s primary target. Matt had been sent to seek a more specific target. He had been told only that part of Sheridan’s troops, under General George Crook, were encamped along the bluffs overlooking Cedar Creek. His orders were to infiltrate the Union picket lines, and if possible, to take out any officers he could get in his sights. It would be unlikely that he would be able to get close enough for a shot at Crook himself, but the higher the rank, the more demoralizing it would be for the Union soldiers.
While he waited for the picket to move on, Matt glanced around him in the darkness to make sure he was still undiscovered. He unconsciously reached up to stroke a small St. Christopher’s medal that hung on a silver chain around his neck, a gift from his mother. His brother wore one just like it. Not really sure who St. Christopher was, both boys considered the medals to be good luck charms.
Matt Slaughter had spent a good portion of his young life in the hills and forests of the Shenandoah Valley, hunting every wild critter that dwelt there. He felt at home in the forest, alone, away from the confusion of his cavalry unit. His commanding officer, Captain Miles Francis, had recognized the wildness in the young volunteer from the central valley and was not at all surprised that the quiet young man proved to be the best marksman in Company K. Consequently, Francis was quick to use Matt’s woodland skills to the regiment’s advantage.
Thoughts of his service since joining the 22nd Virginia Cavalry flashed through Matt’s mind as he readied himself to continue his climb up the slope. It had seemed a long time since the summer of 1863 and the formation of the 22nd. He had participated in most of the fighting in the Shenandoah Valley from the time his unit was thrown into the Third Battle of Winchester a little over a year before. It was a glorious effort, and a decisive victory for the South. But things had not gone well for the Confederate Army in the Shenandoah Valley since, for the Union troops had regrouped and come back with a vengeance. Now his regiment was engaged in little more than harassing attacks against an overpowering Union force—fighting and retreating—with the sickening knowledge that the valley was no longer theirs.
Slowly rising to his feet again, Matt paused to look around once more, the careful precaution of a man who had no one to rely on but himsel
f. It was late October. The leaves were already changing color on the hardwoods, but in the gray predawn light, they appeared cold and lifeless. He thought of his role in this fight: marksman, sharpshooter, sniper. By any name, the term that lodged in his mind was assassin. At first, he looked upon his assignments as no more than soldiering. Like any other soldier in the line, he was doing his duty as ordered. But after a while, it soured on him. In an infantry or cavalry charge, an individual was simply part of one army against another army. But when he killed, it was a personal thing, and the thought was beginning to weigh heavily on his conscience. In his mind, there was nothing heroic about slipping silently through the forest to wait in ambush, to kill, and then to slip away again. He no longer took pride in being the best shot in the regiment. In fact, many times he felt no better than a low-down bushwhacker. Best get my mind back on my business, he reprimanded himself, before I get a Yankee miniball in my behind.
He paused only briefly to glance in both directions when he crossed over the path the picket paced. Then he disappeared into the trees that covered the crown of the hill. Making his way down the other side, he continued until the fires of the Union camp were in sight on the bluffs above the creek. Slinging his rifle so he could free both hands to help scale the steep bluffs, he climbed up to a point high enough to be able to see into the camp. Edging a little closer, he positioned himself to look over the encampment, making note of the sentries posted about the perimeter. Satisfied that he had a clear view of the officers’ tents, he next determined his route of escape, for he would not be able to retreat the way he had come. His primary means of escape, his horse, was tied to a gum tree a quarter of a mile beyond the other side of the ridge he had just crossed. After giving it a couple minutes’ thought, he decided his best route would be to follow the creek to a point where the bluffs were steepest. From there, he could scramble down and cross over. Carrying nothing more than his rifle and ammunition, he was confident that he could outrun anyone giving chase. With that decision made, he settled himself in a thicket to wait for a target.
In no particular hurry now—for it would be at least an hour before daylight—he readied his weapon. One of only two issued to his company, the long, British-made Whitworth was especially suited for his purpose. With its tubular telescopic sight mounted on a hexagonal barrel, he could hit a target up to eighteen hundred yards away. And that was six or seven hundred yards more range than the Enfields carried by most of the infantry companies attached to the regiment. The Whitworth had to be loaded down the muzzle, which was not ideal in a skirmish. But for accuracy, there was no better weapon.
Now came the part he hated—waiting—for there was too much time to think over what he was about to do. If the opportunity presented itself, and it usually did, somebody’s wife was about to become a widow. What seemed unfair about it was the simple fact that his victim would not be prepared to die. There would be no battle raging, no suicidal charge upon an enemy position, no anticipation of the possibility of the fatal shot. Assassin. The word kept coming back to haunt him. He hated it. It was a word without honor.
The only person with whom he had discussed the issue was Lieutenant Gunter. Gunter was a favorite among the men of K Company. A giant of a man, the jovial second lieutenant always seemed to have a word of encouragement for everyone. He had sensed the basic decency in the young soldier from Rockbridge County, and often took time to talk with Matt about his job. It was Gunter who advised Matt to think not of his targets as individuals, but to picture them only as faceless bluecoats. If further encouragement was needed, the lieutenant suggested thinking of the beautiful Shenandoah Valley, now laid waste by Sheridan’s invading troops. Matt had tried to think of these things, but the word that lingered most in his mind was assassin.
First light finally began its gentle intrusion upon the darkened forest, creeping almost imperceptibly until the individual trees began to take shape in the morning mist. A light fog lay across the creek bottom, but was not dense enough to obscure the tents above the creek. Captain Francis had ordered him to hold his fire until first light, which should be around five o’clock. The captain would not elaborate, but Matt figured that the company was to be involved in an early morning assault upon General Crook’s division. It shouldn’t be long now. A thought of his brother, Owen, flashed through his mind then.
About twelve miles back down the Valley Pike, his brother was most likely stirring from his blanket. Owen always woke before first light, a habit ingrained from long years working a farm. Unlike Matt, Owen was a family man. Older by two years, he had volunteered to fight for the sole reason that the valley was his home, and he felt a strong sense of duty to defend it and his family from the Union invaders. Poor Owen, Matt thought, he’s got no business in this fight. He should be home with Abby and his two sons. Both brothers thought the war would never come to the Shenandoah, but come it had, like a deadly plague of locusts, leaving the very ground gutted in its wake. Only ten days before, at Tom’s Brook, Matt’s unit had fought over ground less than thirty miles from his little parcel of land near the river before being forced to retreat back to Woodstock. They had been whipped badly on that day. The memory of it still smarted. The Yankees chased them twenty miles up the Valley Pike and then eight miles up the Back Road. The inglorious retreat came to be known as the Woodstock Races. He wondered now if his cabin and Owen’s house had been spared when the Union troops swept through. There had been no opportunity to find out.
Suddenly his senses were brought back to the present, for the Union camp came to life as soldiers crawled out of tents and blankets. Soon fires were reborn all along the bluffs, and the sounds of a waking army filtered through the hardwoods. Matt sat motionless as a Union sergeant walked out among the trees, approaching to within ten yards of him before stopping to empty his bladder. With no thought of panic, Matt watched until the soldier finished and returned to the camp. Then he turned his attention back to concentrate on the officers’ tents. In a few minutes time, a soldier appeared at the flap of the closest tent carrying a cup of coffee. Time to go to work, Matt told himself, forcing himself to ignore the feeling of reluctance that always came. Rising to one knee he brought his rifle up and rested the barrel in the fork of a young dogwood. Sighting through the long telescopic sight, he trained the weapon on the tent flap. Moments passed. Then a gray-whiskered face appeared and stepped outside to accept the coffee. He wore no tunic, so his rank could not be determined. But since he was the one who was served coffee, Matt guessed that he was in command.
Matt took careful aim. His intent was always to make the shot count, to kill his target as quickly as possible with minimal suffering. At a range of one hundred yards, he was confident enough to take a head shot, so he trained his sights slightly above the gray whiskers. He waited a few moments to allow his victim a sip or two of hot coffee before squeezing the trigger. The face in the telescopic sight disappeared with the sharp report of the Whitworth rifle. With no hesitation, but without unnecessary haste, Matt reloaded his weapon, ramming home another bolt, as the odd-shaped bullets were called. Although the sudden shot had caused pandemonium in the Union camp, with soldiers running for cover, Matt was not yet concerned with escape. He felt reasonably sure that his muzzle blast had not been seen, especially with the fog rising from the creek. His rifle loaded, he turned to sight on the second tent. As he expected, an officer emerged from the tent, a pistol in his hand. He took one step toward his fallen commander before collapsing on the ground, shot through the heart.
There it was, that little sick feeling Matt always experienced when he assassinated an unsuspecting victim. It made no difference that the two officers were the enemy, and would send troops forward to kill him and his comrades. In his mind, it was outright murder. As Lieutenant Gunter advised, he tried to think of the officers as barbarians, laying waste to the Shenandoah.
His job done, Matt wasted little time withdrawing from the thicket that had shielded him. There were probably two or three more of
ficers in the camp, but he wasn’t willing to risk another shot. His assignment had been to demoralize the enemy by killing the commanding officers. At this point in the war, it seemed a pointless task, but he had done it one more time, and had accepted it as his duty.
Making his way along the creek at a steady trot, he listened to the excited sounds behind him, alert to any that might indicate pursuit. He knew from experience that at first the soldiers would be seeking cover in anticipation of an attack upon their position. Not until they realized that there was no Confederate force about to descend upon them would they mount a hunting party to go after the sniper. By that time, he planned to be long gone.
He had barely crossed over to the other side of the creek when he heard the opening barrage of the battle behind him. Confused, he immediately turned and worked his way back along the bank to see for himself. “Damn!” he uttered as he spotted a wave of Confederate infantry sweeping along the bluffs, flanking the Union position. They must have marched all night to get here, he thought. This was what Captain Francis had hinted at the day before. From his vantage point on the creek bank, Matt could see that the Confederate attack was successful, for Crook’s soldiers were already falling back in retreat. God, he thought, we damn sure need a victory after Tom’s Brook.
Giving no thought toward joining in the Rebel assault, he continued to watch until the Confederate infantry succeeded in driving the Union soldiers back toward Middletown. His reasoning was simple: he was apt to get shot by one of his own comrades if he came running out of the woods to join them. He elected to withdraw and go back to retrieve his horse. He had done enough killing for one day.
* * *
When he found his company later in the morning, he was greeted by several of his friends. Still basking in the heady wine of victory, they offered good-natured derision. “Well, lookee who decided to show up,” a lanky farm boy from Lexington called out.
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